


The Temptation Of John Watson

by witchwood_hull



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Kidnapping, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, interminable conversations, plastic is sharp dammit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 22:32:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchwood_hull/pseuds/witchwood_hull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone deals with grief in different ways. John Watson, for instance, was managing his fairly well. Other people? Not so much...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Temptation Of John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my match in the Johnlock Challenges Grab Bag Challenge, rainbowintofandom, using their prompt of 'I hope you understand why I’m forced to take your life in my hands.' 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, rainbow!

"I hope you understand why I'm forced to take your life in my hands."

"I don't," John said, wishing not for the first time that he could rub his face. Not that it would do anything for the headache. "I really, really don't. Who are you, again?" 

The man—taller, scarred, with a tension to his movements that screamed _not on solid mental ground, mate_ to John—scrubbed his hands over his short hair and paced back and forth. "You should fucking know," he snapped. 

"Sorry, look, I know everyone thinks I'm some kind of...encyclopedia of Sherlock's cases, but I really only remember the cases that had some bizarre element to them. And we were only together—solving crimes, I mean—for a couple of years. I know he's known Greg for—He _knew_ Greg for five years before I met him, so..." John tried to shrug, which only served to remind him that he'd been tied up for a few hours too long.

"Sebastian!" Sebastian snarled, jabbing his thumb into his chest, stalking over until he was nearly straddling John's knees. "You _idiot_ , how could you not—"

"Sebastian? From... The bank?" John frowned in consideration, looking Sebastian up and down. "That was a hell of a disguise, if so." 

" _Not_ from the _bank_ ," Sebastian hissed, stepping backward. "Fucking _banks_ are full of stupid fucks who can't tell their arse from their elbow. No." 

"Then you must be someone from Sherlock's cases prior to me meeting him," John said, doing his best to relax into his captivity. "Sorry." 

"He didn't say anything about me?" The words were almost plaintive, Sebastian's shoulders ever so slightly hunched. 

"Who, Sherlock? He never talks— _talked_ —about anyone, not really." 

"Not that fucking prick!" Sebastian rounded on John and closed the distance between them in order to loom over him. "Could you just shut the hell up about your boyfriend for five minutes?" 

"Of course I'm going to talk about Sherlock! No one's ever interested in _me_ ," John said, glaring up at Sebastian. "I'm only ever peripheral, accessory, adjacent. Half of the good coat and a short friend equation. It's not as if you want _me_ tied up in a cold basement flat that smells of damp and cabbage because I'm some brilliant _doctor_. And he's not— _wasn't_ —my boyfriend." 

"At least people _talk about you!_ They remember _you_ , they _think_ about _you!_ " 

"Sebastian..." John decided to try a different tack and tilted his head at the other chair on the far side of the rickety table. "Why don't you just...sit down and tell me about it? Tell me what it is that you deserve recognition for." 

The scarred man stomped around the table. "Everything!" Sebastian slammed his fists down on the wood, then dropped into the other chair. "I _deserve_ to be remembered for _everything_ I did." 

"Which was...what?" 

"I caught the teacup! I kept the top spinning, I mopped up and fried up and fucking _washed_ up and and and—" 

"Deep breaths," John said, pulling against his bonds as Sebastian's shoulders heaved and he put his head down. "Nice and slow, in through the nose, out through the mouth." 

"Do you know how glorious it is, being allowed to use your gifts in the service of genius?" His head was still down, but his voice carried well in the mostly-empty space.

"Uh..." John blinked at him, strangled a laugh and bit his lip. Of course he did—who did Sebastian _think_ he'd kidnapped?

"Someone who knows what you can do, so they sharpen you up and aim you at the problem? Someone who, when you've taken care of things, _praises_ you for it?" 

"Well, yes, actually," John said, raising his eyebrows. "I wouldn't say she was a genius, but my commanding officer usually had a bit of a good word for me after the blood and the screaming was done with." 

"Oh?" Sebastian's eyes narrowed. "She was pleased with your killing?" 

"What? God, no. I was with the Royal Army Medical Corps—fixed on patching up, not putting more holes in." 

"You killed, though," Sebastian said, leaning over the table, looking almost _hungry_.

"We're only issued weapons for use in self-defense," John said, doing his best to keep from leaning backward. "But yes, I have taken lives."

"So you _understand_." 

"What it feels like to kill another human being? Yes. To lose a comrade, or a friend? Yes." 

"Ah... And it is so...intoxicating, isn't it?" 

"It is, in the way drinking straight grain alcohol is," John said, calm in the face of the repulsive statement. "In the same way alcohol poisoning is." 

"What is wrong with you?" Sebastian slapped his hands down on the table, the crack echoing from the walls. "How can you be so—So—"

"So...?" 

"You're wasted! You're a clot, you're useless! How could you... You... How could _he_ think you're at all—" Sebastian was up on his feet again, fists rubbing over his hair as he paced back and forth. "Fuck this. Fuck it all, sod it all for a fucking game of soldiers—" 

John frowned, but he kept silent as Sebastian turned on his heel and trotted out of the room, then the flat proper. 

\- - * - - 

"Oi," Sebastian said, as he sauntered into the room, some ninety minutes later. "You're a doctor, yeah? Tell me how a man could survive a fall from a building." 

"If he landed on something that cushioned his fall enough, I suppose," John said, keeping his eyes closed. Forced himself to pull up visions of the happy normal patients he treated to keep from seeing blood and wet paving stones. "It'd depend on how tall the building was, among other things. If you're trying to suggest that—"

"Don't you say that name," Sebastian said. He put the bags he carried on the table, then crossed his arms as he considered John. "You talk about yourself. You tell me what makes you so _special_." 

"Nothing makes me special," John said, opening his eyes at last. Sebastian was perched on the edge of the table nearest himself, which made the piece of furniture creak somewhat ominously. "I'm just... I'm a doctor, mostly doing locum work as a GP, which means lots of boring routine. Shots and physicals and screenings and reassuring people that despite what WebMD might say they're not a week away from death's doorstep." 

"Tch." Sebastian waved a hand and shook his head. "There's got to be _something_. Keep talking." 

"I was in the army. I went through training, got assigned to the Fifth Northumberland, went to Afghanistan. Got shot at, shot back, tried to keep people from dying—managed it, sometimes, other times I failed. Got shot at some more and my luck ran out. Once my mates saved _me_ , I was rubber-stamped right back to where I started, only with scars and sleep disturbances, among other things." 

"But why was it _you?_ " Sebastian leaned forward, staring hard at the smaller man, fingers white-knuckled where he held the edge of the table. 

"I ask myself the same questions in the middle of the night, you know." John sighed, weariness settling over him. "Look, if you're jealous about Sher—About my life on Baker Street, don't be. It wasn't... There was a lot of misinformation in the papers, most of which was ou—my own fault because w—I decided not to talk to anyone about...anything. So a few people decided that just because of my address and my familiarity with Sh—certain people, they could just draw the conclusions that suited them. And unlike DI Dimmock, they never had the chance to learn what a bad idea that was." 

"Jealous? Oh yes, I'm _very_ jealous, you little prick. You, _you_ get to go merrily along with your life and your genius and your little secrets and what am _I_ left with? Nothing, _nothing_ , and _I_ have been so loyal, so _devoted—_ "

"Ah, Sebastian?" 

"What?" 

"You... You do know...that 'my genius' is _dead_ , don't you?" John's tone was somewhat reticent, the question quiet. 

Sebastian scoffed at him, sitting back on the table and folding his arms. "You really don't see it, do you." 

"As I understand it, my problem lies in the fact that I look at things but don't understand what they ultimately signify," John said, leveling a sardonic look at him. "So explain it to me. Small words, if you please." 

"There have been reports coming out of the Continent for _months_ —rings, syndicates, families, gangs—one by one, they've been falling. Sometimes through deaths, mostly through Interpol and local police." 

"And that means Sherlock's alive?" John laughed, if his single bitter bark could be called such a thing. "Please. By that logic, the first arrest the Met made on a murder case after _he killed himself_ was a sign, too." 

"If that fucking bastard is _alive_ , then probably _my_ genius is, too. _And I want him back_."

"Your..." John blinked, squinted at Sebastian, then let his head fall forward. "You want _your_ genius. Back. And your genius is... Oh, God, the cabbie?" _"I'm a proper genius, too."_ That was how he'd described himself to Sherlock, and how had Sherlock missed the fact that the cabbie had a partner?

"That was _once_." 

"No, the cabbie that—" John looked up, confusion rumpling his face. "Wait, what do you mean, once?" 

" _He_ was a cabbie _once_. To get close to... _your_ genius." 

"Oh." Realization replaced confusion, then was itself replaced by a forced blankness. "Did he have a real name?" 

"How _dare_ you—" Sebastian lunged forward, right fist leading, the sound of the impact echoing much as Sebastian's earlier blows to the table had. "James Toirdhealbhach _Moriarty!_ "

John opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, deciding that his jaw was all right. "James Tor—Mm." 

"That's all you have to say?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

John just looked at him, until the silence between them was tense enough that Sebastian seemed on the edge of moving. "Because I don't know what else I could say," he said, at last. "Was there anything in particular you were hoping for?" 

Sebastian rolled his eyes and sighed as if the weight of the world had just landed on his foot after a day full of particularly trying events. "No, I don't suppose there was." 

"Right." 

Silence fell after that, Sebastian ignoring his captive in favor of dealing with what turned out to be groceries. 

Twenty-five minutes later, John had had enough. "Don't suppose I might convince you to let me use the toilet," he said. 

"No." 

"Right. That's _not_ going to end well for either of us." 

"Yeah, well, I'm not untying you and letting you escape, either," Sebastian said. "So it seems we're at a bit of an impasse." 

"So untie one hand and bring me a bottle, then," John said, glaring at him. 

"I'm not holding it for you." 

"Both hands, if you're not going to be useful. Or a pitcher or a vase or something." And he thought he'd had some surreal conversations over violation of personal boundaries with _Sherlock_... He'd have to remember to tell—Right. Think about an endless parade of old ladies who couldn't bring themselves to use proper medical terminology for their reproductive systems interspersed with screaming children who needed _all_ of their school vaccinations at once, Watson, there's a good man.

"One," Sebastian said, with a quick shake of his head. He disappeared into the kitchen again. 

 - - * - - 

It wasn't until after dinner (an unpleasant experience for John, who would have been very happy to never relive the experience of having to feed himself with his non-dominant hand alone for so long as he should live) that it occurred to him to ask: "How long are you going to wait before you either give me up or kill me?" 

"I haven't decided," Sebastian said, carefully setting the guide rod for his handgun on top of a rag so that it wouldn't roll away. "How long do you think it will take for word to reach your bastard?" 

"Still not mine," John said, with as much resigned annoyance as he could muster. Hadn't had the chance—Not now. "Let's say your theory is true. Depending on how low a profile he's keeping, it may be anything from a day to a month. I don't think either of us is going to survive a month in the other's company." 

Sebastian made an amused noise at the statement. "I fear you're right. Fine. I suppose I can come up with something that will be tolerable for... Ten days?" 

"Ten days, here, with you." John looked around, taking in the peeling wallpaper and the edge of building decay that touched the back of his throat with every breath and the man cleaning his pistol at the table. "Wasn't there someone whose last words were about the wallpaper?" 

"My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One or the other of us has to go," Sebastian said, actually smiling at the other man. "Oscar Wilde's last words." 

"Perhaps it was by the same person who designed this horrible stuff," John said, jerking his chin at the wall across from himself. 

"Possibly." Sebastian held the barrel of his pistol up and squinted down it for a moment, then put it down again. He pulled a clean patch into place on the end of his cleaning rod, then ran it down the bore. "Shame, really, that we didn't meet under more...pleasant circumstances." 

"Yeah." John wiggled his fingers, suddenly twitchy with a wish for the soothing meditation that was breaking a gun down, cleaning and reassembling it. The familiar scents of solvent and gun oil didn't help. "What've you got there?" 

"Beretta Storm 45," Sebastian said, inspecting the swab. He set the barrel down, discarded the patch, and picked up an odd-looking rectangular bit, which he proceeded to wipe down with another patch. "Sweet little thing, even if she kicks a bit." 

"Yeah? Never liked 45s, to be honest." 

"Nines do seem more like you," Sebastian said, glancing at John. "Recoil or concussion?" 

"Concussion," John said, with a nod toward the parts on the table. "Hard to work on someone when you're involuntarily closing your eyes under covering fire."

"Mm, yeah, I can see that." 

"So what did you do, before you met Moriarty?" The word _Stockholm_ floated through the back of his mind, but John pushed it down. There was sympathizing with a captor and there was passing the time; John was all in favor of nearly any distraction he could get. 

"Was in the army, Third Champawat Rifles. Stationed in Kashipur. You were a captain, yeah?" 

"Not familiar with them," John said, after running through the dregs of his Famous Regiments You Must Know. He never had figured out why he'd had to memorize them before they'd promote him, but that was always the way, wasn't it? "Yeah."

"Ha. I've a crown to your three pips, then." Sebastian picked up a little bottle and flipped the cap off with his thumbnail. "No reason you should've done. Durga's Claws aren't exactly a household name outside of Kashipur." 

"Hope you don't mind me not saluting, sir," John said. 

"Pft, if I wanted salutes I'd have stayed on." 

"So why'd you leave?" 

"Better offer," Sebastian said, carefully oiling each component of his gun before he put them back where they went. "Lost a favor to Jim in a card game in Rudrapur, and when he collected, I impressed him. He...persuaded me that my skills would see more use if I were to leave the Claws and join him."

"Makes sense, I s'pose." 

"I didn't desert, you know. I finished my hitch, then took my leave." Sebastian set the slide in place, pulled it back and locked it in the open position; he slapped a magazine home and released the slide before ejecting it again.

"Good. That's... Great."

"I'd like to think that I could bring you 'round," Sebastian said, pushing another round into the magazine before returning it to the gun. He produced a second magazine and began loading it. "More people in our line of work, more chances for you to shine." 

"You're hoping to convince me to...join up with you," John said, slowly. "Why do you think I would?" 

"Because it's more fun than runny noses and telling pensioners to lay off the salt?" He smacked the back of the magazine against the heel of his hand, then set it aside. "Because you like watching clever people be clever." 

"Maybe." 

"You can't tell me you don't like clever," Sebastian said. "I was watching you, you know. At the pool." 

"I do," John said, some small part of him thinking he really should be more concerned about chatting with one of the men who had been waiting to put an end to all of Sherlock's cleverness. The rest of him was content in the knowledge that he too was a killer... "But I'm not much for killing innocents as part of some twisted _game_." 

"You wouldn't have to," Sebastian said, gathering up the dirty patches and other debris. "You could simply be a doctor and a guard, much like you were before." 

John closed his eyes and pursed his lips, ruthlessly suppressing the desire to reel off a list of everything he'd been to Sherlock—sounding board, moral compass (to a point, anyway), nanny, housekeeper, biographer, cook, _friend_. And if things had carried on... "And why would I want to go back to that? Cleaning up messes that could have been avoided with a few seconds of thought?"

"Because you're like me—life is best when it's lived right on the edge." He got up and binned his trash, then went back to the table. "Holding a life in your hands, that's something to cherish. If you're lucky, you might get a patient with apoplexy in your examining room. If you come with me... Well. It's your lucky day every day, innit?" 

Hollow laughter sounded even less amused when it bounced off bare walls. "Lucky me. Saving bastards so they can kill again." John sighed and did his best to relax into his chair. "You'll have to do better than that." 

Sebastian shrugged and packed away his supplies; his gun went into its holster under his arm and the extra magazines into his pockets. "You gonna throw stones in this glass house?" 

"No one asked me if I wanted war," John said, letting his head fall back despite the way it exposed his throat. "As I said earlier, self-defense. Not exactly capital murder, is it? _Sir?_ " The sneer was probably uncalled for, but he didn't really care. 

"And on that note, I believe it's time for bed." Sebastian clapped his hands, zipped his bag, then circled around the table to John's chair. "It's nothing fancy, but it'll be better than the chair." 

\- - * - - 

Morning came in through the dirty little window, grey with dust and clouds. John sat up, ran through his stretches, and took another look at the room Sebastian had locked him in. Eight square meters, probably; one window too small even for him to squirm through (even if he could get up to it, even if he could get it open); one door locked with a shiny new padlock on the outside. The bed was little more than a cot, though it had indeed proved more comfortable than being tied to the chair all night. 

"Sebastian!" He pounded on the door and waited. Five minutes later, he tried again. 

"Keep your shirt on," Sebastian said, twenty minutes later. "I was out." 

"Could've mentioned you were leaving," John said, scowling as the man let him out into the hall without trying to subdue him. "Changed your mind about tying me up?" 

"You were sleeping so well when I looked in on you it seemed a shame to wake you," Sebastian said, raising his brows and cocking his head. "Not entirely. Part of my errand was for fittings with which to secure you." 

"Chains, I'm sure. Very modern, all steel and flash, yeah?" He could smell breakfast, so he stomped off to the kitchen. 

"Not exactly." Sebastian followed John, waiting until the man had seated himself at the table before he poured out coffee for both of them. "Help yourself to whatever you'd like," he said, carrying a mug over to John. "Here." 

"Mm." John took stock of the tableware: plastic mugs, sturdy; plastic utensils, flimsy; paper plates; kitchen roll. The food had either come out of the freezer or as take-away, there wasn't any evidence of cooking. Not really much to work with. 

After he'd eaten and dealt with his usual morning routine, John found himself free to wander the flat. 

"You're not concerned that I might try to attack you?"

"Not really," Sebastian said, not looking up from the copy of Soldier of Fortune that he was reading. "I know you're one to watch out for, being short and all, but I'm fairly sure I've more practice in fighting hand-to-hand and fighting _dirty_. Recent practice. Last bout ended with a body in the Thames." 

John wasn't sure if Sebastian was bluffing—the casual statement was as likely to be true as it was a lie. He went back to staring at the electric bolts that had been installed on the front door, wondering how sturdy the door itself was. The hinges were on the inside but painted over; if he had something to put against the pins and a hammer, he could likely escape that way. Something to file away, anyhow, just in case things did line up properly for him. 

Motion caught his eye and he frowned as a pair of ratty trainers—he assumed they were trainers, anyhow, they appeared to be held together with gaffer tape and hope—and an equally-ratty pair of blue jeans passed the window above Sebastian's head. The world went on, outside the flat; people went to work and home, to lovers and enemies, to dinner and the movies. 

"Got anything else to read?" Sebastian had taken his phone, naturally, along with anything else that might have afforded him a few minutes of entertainment. 

"I've got a couple of lad mags, though I imagine they're not exactly to your taste, and last month's FFL News." 

"Right." John started clearing up the table, taking the opportunity to assess the contents of the kitchen. Mostly what he found was dust and the odd mouse dropping in the cabinets and drawers, along with a couple of cases of Redi-Meals; the fridge confirmed his suspicions of pre-made food items. "Expecting a siege, are we?" 

"Not unless yours is stupid enough to try," Sebastian said.

"He was certainly stubborn enough, when he was in a strop..." John muttered and kept working his way through the kitchen. About the only thing he'd come up with by the time he'd exhausted his options was to wad up kitchen roll and set it alight with the hob. It was (of course!) an electric hob, so who knew how long _that_ would take. 

"Well, there you are, then." 

"So you've locked the both of us in, and all you have to read are two magazines about idiots and one about idiots who like guns. You're sure you don't have anything else?" 

"At the moment, yeah," Sebastian said. He put his magazine aside and got up, crossing the room to frown at John. "If you can't behave yourself, it's back to the chair for you." 

"Then give me something to do," John said, crossing his arms and glaring right back. 

"I suppose you could scrub the loo," Sebastian said. 

"I suppose I will, then." 

Sebastian turned up in the doorway to the bathroom ten minutes later, finding John on his knees by the tub. "I didn't think you'd take me seriously," he said. 

"At least this place is only dusty," John said, over the sound of sponge on porcelain. "I've had my fill of nasty things stuck to floors." 

"Like what?" 

"Well, if you don't clean blood and...other things off steel well enough and the aircon goes out in 46-degree heat, it's not pleasant. And if you _can't_ clean it up, and there was no aircon to start with..." John shook his head, shoving the memories away before they could bring up the cloying scent of decay and loss. "Trust me, you don't want to have to deal with it." 

"Ah." 

"Yeah." 

"Would you go back?"

"No." 

"Do take your time answering." 

"Fuck you." 

"Not my type." 

"Either shut up and help, or go away," John said, scrubbing at a rust stain with more force than was necessary. A dull ache gnawed at him, Sherlock-shaped and sulky—Sebastian's conversational gambits offered him none of the diversion of those given by the detective. 

"I've read all my magazines," Sebastian said, leaning against the door frame. "Besides, there are chemicals in here and you might get...ideas." 

The aching spiked into anger, bright and hot. "Yes, there are. And unfortunately for me, none of them are particularly useful to me, separately or mixed together. The only thing I could do is throw some of them in your eyes, but I'd really rather have a cup for that and I'm fairly certain _that's_ not going to happen. So fuck off." 

"I'm going, I'm going. And yeah, I'll be watching out for you and any mysterious substances from in here." 

"Great." 

\- - * - - 

Three days later, John had figured out a half-dozen ways to kill a man with plastic flatware, the most effective of which was to break off the tines of the fork at an angle and attack the vulnerable points of the throat. The only problem was that it was a plan best accomplished when the victim was asleep—Sebastian always locked him in first and then locked himself in his own room. 

John had learned a few other things over the three days, the most painful of which was that he now understood Sherlock's borderline fear of boredom. There had been stretches of quiet in the desert, but there had always been _something_ to do: cleaning, attending patients, maintaining weapons, moving supplies, tending the minor injuries sustained by the rest of his group. 

He supposed there was always setting the kitchen roll on fire, though John rather thought he'd rather save it given the risk that Sebastian would let them both die. 

"Heard anything?" 

"Mm. Your mum—"

"Not interested." 

"That's what she said." 

"If I had a gun, I'd shoot you just to keep you from talking." 

"Really? You couldn't come up with a more creative reason?" 

"They say the simple pleasures are the finest." 

"And old pippins the toothsomest," Sebastian said, waving a hand.

"Lovely." John sighed and stretched. "It's a beautiful day. We should go to the zoo." 

"Not going to happen." 

"Then round to the shops for pie and beer." 

"No." 

"Then go get me something to read! Or go find a TV in a skip or _something_. Otherwise..." 

"Threatening me?" 

"Bored as I am, I think I'm up for risking my life trying to kill you." 

"Really not interested." 

"So _have_ you heard anything?" 

"No—" Sebastian's phone buzzed. "Maybe." He scrolled through whatever he'd received. "Well." 

"And?" John looked up, out the window; the same pair of trainers and the tatty jeans above them passed by. Hadn't he seen them earlier in the day? He'd seen them on other days, but usually only once... 

"And maybe we'll see something interesting tomorrow." 

"Tomorrow! That only leaves us..." John checked his watch. "Fourteen and a half hours until tomorrow, if you're being pedantic." 

"Well done you. Tops in your maths class, were you?" 

John growled and stomped off to his room, which was as depressing as it had been when he'd gotten up. He sat on the bed, back against the wall with the window in it, and let his mind drift for a bit. As he did, the angle of the sun changed, and with it the quality of the light on the wall opposite. 

In fact, there were some lines of sunlight that seemed brighter than the rest, which... John focused his gaze on the spot, but the shapes remained entirely too diffuse. He shuffled himself to the middle of his bed and turned round, peering up at the window—The window!

Someone had used their finger to write numbers in the grime coating the glass: _14.45_

Unless it was a year—John doubted it, but one never knew—it was a time. Given that it hadn't been there when he'd risen, it likely meant this afternoon. He considered bringing it to Sebastian's attention, ultimately deciding against it. Now all he had to do was wait some more. 

\- - * - - 

The hands of John's watch pointed out _14:40_. Five more minutes... He wasn't usually given to pacing, but there wasn't anything else he could do at the moment. Sebastian was likely to chalk it up to boredom-induced restlessness, if he even noticed – he seemed to have developed a knack for ignoring John. 

_14:42_

A shadow on the wall drew John's attention to the window once more. The familiar gaffer-taped shoes and frayed denim paused, there was a quick flash of light from...something, a signal mirror, maybe? He wasn't sure. Then they were gone. 

_14:44:07_  
  
The shoes were back, this time right outside the window. 

_14:44:26_

There was a sharp bang from out front, followed by Sebastian's voice rising in complaint. John himself stayed put for the moment, watching the window. 

_14:44:39_

A piece of cloth came down over the window. John realized what it was for and lunged into the far corner of the room, as far from both the window and the door as he could get. The glass broke under two muffled blows, falling into the room with a scraping clatter; a lumpy bundle came through to land on the bed. 

_14:45_

The bundle held a Metro officer's coat and cap, a baton, and best of all a gun. John caught the gleam of brass in the breech as he racked the slide; his mouth twisted with a vicious smile as he safed it and tucked it into his waistband. He put the cap and the coat on, discovered that the sleeves were long enough to conceal the gun in his hand, and left his room. 

_14:46_

Sebastian spun around, drawing a bead on John as the man entered the front room. "What the hell—"

"Watson!" A man's voice came from the other side of the front door, which was askew but not entirely open. 

"I dunno either," John said, with the barest shake of his head. "You're the one who said we were waiting for tomorrow." 

"Come over here," Sebastian said, gesturing toward the saggy sofa with the muzzle of his gun. "Now." 

"John Watson! Answer if you're alive!"

"Yeah!" John shouted, crossing over to stand by Sebastian. 

"Good," the man said, the word followed by a strange mechanical whine and the distinct sound of splintering wood. 

"He won't be for much longer," Sebastian shouted, putting his free arm around John's shoulders and his gun to John's head.

"Kill him and you'll never get what you want," the man said. He smashed something into the door, then stepped through the resulting gap.

John looked down at his feet, first: there was the silvery strapping of gaffer tape, peeking out from under denim that had seen better days. The rest of the man's clothes weren't much different—he looked like a down-at-heel American student taking a gap year in the EU. An unkempt ginger beard and moustache topped with shaggy ginger hair completed the picture. 

"What could _you_ have that I want?" Sebastian said, fingers curling into the extra fabric at John's shoulder. 

"Information," John said, "probably. Since I doubt you want money, and I know you don't want drugs." 

"Exactly," the stranger said. "Information on the location of a certain...person." 

John swallowed as he caught the way Sebastian adjusted his grip on the gun. 

"And I suppose you want me to give up my only bargaining chip before you talk," Sebastian said, shifting his feet a little. 

The stranger pulled his hand out of the pocket of the grubby pullover he wore, holding up a folded piece of paper. "I propose a mutual exchange," he said, moving toward the table. "I give you this, you give me Watson. Calmly. _Alive_." 

"And who's Watson to you? You're not Lestrade, and you're sure as hell _not_ his bleedin' landlady." 

"It's not like it will mean anything to you, but I'm Hopkins of the Yard." 

_Hopkins of the Yard?_ _Hopkins's hair is a different shade of red entirely. Last I knew, he was an assistant inspector seconded to Dimmock..._ John bit his tongue to keep from laughing at the entire absurd situation, knowing neither man would appreciate it. 

"Hopkins of the Yard. My, how you've grown," Sebastian said, non-plussed. "Try again." 

"Edward Hopkins, not Avvie," Hopkins said, waving the paper again. "Just transferred in from Wokingham. Afon Hopkins is from Machynlleth by way of Luton. Did you want this, or shall I burn it?" 

John shifted his own fingers against the handgrip of the pistol he held, waiting for an opening. To that end, he decided to see if he couldn't get Sebastian to move along. "Why don't you let me go? I was ready to tackle you this morning out of pure ennui, after all. Do you really want to spend any more time with me?" 

Hopkins unfolded the page and showed it to the other two men. "Last chance." 

Sebastian took a breath, let it out slowly. "On the other hand... Have you given my offer some thought, John?" 

"What offer?" Hopkins went stiff, the page fluttering a little in his fingers. 

"The good doctor has had a bit of a dry spell, when it comes to his...unique talents. I simply suggested that, were he to stay with me, he might get daily use out of them," Sebastian said, raising his brows and tilting his head toward John's. 

"I see. And have you, Watson?" 

"I have," John said, shifting toward Hopkins as much as he dared. "I'd like a chance to make more of a difference in the city than I do, currently. If I'm being honest, I _do_ find most of my life painfully tedious." 

"Well, then. Just leave the page on the table on your way out, Hopkins," Sebastian smiled and loosened his grasp on John. 

The overlarge coat slipped easily from John's shoulders, allowing him to spin out from under Sebastian's arm; he caught the tail of it and flung it up over the taller man's head. One quick strike to each of Sebastian's kidneys and a kick to the back of his left leg put him on his knees. "Thing is," John said, blinking as Hopkins dropped a loop of rope around the man on the floor, "tedium pays the bills and doesn't get me kidnapped." 

"Your answer is a resounding _no_ , is it?" Hopkins asked, not looking up from the knots he was tying as he finished trussing up Sebastian. 

"All caps, full stop," John said, removing the cap from his head. "Ta." 

"Not a problem," Hopkins said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the door. "Shall we go?" 

"Yes. The sooner the better." John followed him out and up to the street, where a taxi was parked at the kerb.

"I don't think the Yard's going to reimburse you for having the taxi wait..." John ducked a little and peered through the reflections on the window nearest himself. "Ah." 

"They won't, but that's because I'm the driver," Hopkins said, holding up a set of keys. "In you get." 

"So..." John said, a few minutes later, "did you really leave him information about Moriarty?" 

"Yes," Hopkins said.

"Moriarty is dead." 

"That's what most people assume, anyway." 

"Hm. Your name _isn't_ Edward Hopkins." 

"It is for the moment," Hopkins said. 

"Will Mrs Hudson be safe in Baker Street, Sherlock?" John was looking down at his hands as he spoke, concentrating on keeping them curled into tight fists. 

"Of course she will, John. Lestrade and his men were on their way to the flat before I broke the window—they should have him in custody by now." 

Sherlock's _voice_ , low and rough and utterly unforgettable, stirred up things he'd long thought settled. John decided that he'd had enough for one day and that he'd deal with it tomorrow. All of it. "Good." 

"I... Ah, do you..." 

"Tomorrow," John said, bringing his gaze up at last. The man beside him still didn't look much like Sherlock, though there was a definite resemblance around the eyebrows. "I'm not... I need a good night's sleep in my own bed, first." Which wasn't the entire truth, but it was the only part he felt up to facing at the moment. 

"Of course." 

The remainder of the ride passed in silence, the two of them glancing at one another every now and then. 

"That'll be ten quid," Sherlock said, his vowels Liverpudlian. 

"Right, put it on my tab," John said, a corner of his mouth quirking. It and the rest of his humor fell away as Sherlock reached over and put a hand on his jaw, drawing him close. 

Sherlock didn't kiss John, just tipped his head forward until their brows met. "Thank you," he said, after a minute or so. 

"Uh... Right. No, wait, isn't that mine? You found me—" John tried to focus on Sherlock, only managing to cross his eyes instead. 

"You said no," Sherlock said, patting John's face as he straightened up. "And the rest can wait until tomorrow." 

"Oh." John nodded, fumbling at the door latch because he wanted to keep looking at Sherlock. Strange, infuriating, astonishing, _alive_ Sherlock. "I like Greg. Didn't want to explain what I was thinking when he arrested me." He slid out of the cab, then leaned in again. "Tomorrow, then." 

"See you then." 

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, the names I chose for this have particular meanings or associations. [Moriarty's middle name can be found on this list](http://www.behindthename.com/names/browse.php?type_gender=1&operator_gender=&value_gender%5B%5D=masculine&type_usage=1&operator_usage=&value_usage%5B%5D=irish&page=2), along with several others that I considered and ultimately discarded. 
> 
> Afon Hopkins is only named as such 'cause I've got A Thing for Wales and their beautiful vowels. ...I think that's about everything.


End file.
